


How They Move In Silence

by Breath4Soul



Series: Tumblr Made Me Do It [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Doctor John, Doctor John Watson, Doctor/Patient, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Sherlock Texting, Sherlock is sick, Texting, Voiceless Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-25 04:43:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6180598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompt: Sherlock loses his voice and has to communicate through texts which leads to love confessions.<br/>______________________</p><blockquote>
  <p>“Yep. Simple case of Laryngitis,” John pronounces, placing his hands on his hips. His voice the calm and confident tone of an experienced physician. “Drink plenty of fluids. You’ll also need to rest your voice. That means no talking, Sherlock.” Sherlock starts to protest, but John holds up a hand. </p>
</blockquote>______________________<p> </p><p>  <i>"See how nature - trees, flowers, grass - grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence... We need silence to be able to touch souls." -<i>Mother Theresa </i></i><br/>_______</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gone

“John.” The sound is hardly more than a breathy squeak. Sherlock sweeps from his bedroom out into the sitting room, his house coat billowing out behind him. His eyes snap to John on the sofa as he stops in the doorway. Once John lifts his eyes to his flatmate, Sherlock's head tips back and his long, thin fingers flail at his own throat in frustration. He levels his gaze at John and glares with anger. “Gone,” he croaks. 

John stares at him a moment, puzzled.

“You've lost your voice?” John asks tilting his head and looking Sherlock over. Sherlock rolls his eyes in a silent _‘obviously.’_

John stares at him a moment in shock. He has never actually seen his friend ill before. Between the grimey places they somehow frequently find themselves in to solve cases and Sherlock's disgusting habit of tasting random substances at crime scenes, he is surprised this doesn't happen more frequently. 

John feels the corners of his mouth pulling up and he struggles to hide it by thrusting his lips forward thoughtfully. Amusement still twinkles in his eyes and, of course, almost nothing escapes the consulting detective’s perception. 

Sherlock scowls. He steps forward pointing an accusing finger at the doctor. “Pleased.” The bite of his cold tone is lost in the husky creak of his voice that John is finding adorable right now.

“No,” John insists, rising to his feet. His smile is wide, but apologetic, he really doesn't wish his friend to suffer. “Just… surprised, is all… Frankly it's reassuring that the great Sherlock Holmes _is human_ after all.” 

“Pleased,” Sherlock rasps nodding. His irritation is clear on his features. John shakes his head and clears his throat.

“Alright then, let me have a look,” John says assuming a professional demeanor as he moves towards the other man.

“Light touch to the neck,” John states in the calming tone he uses to narrate his actions to skittish patients. He is already reaching for Sherlock's pale neck with confident and practiced movements. Sherlock is not exactly a terrified five year old but John is aware how an unexpected touch seems to alarm him. It also helps John remain in the right mindset.

“Checking for swelling,” John states as his thick fingers press into the sides of Sherlock's neck moving methodically up and down and across the front, locating glands. 

Sherlock’s eyes, a deep green-blue this morning, bore into John. They study the doctor's face with a fierce intensity that makes John feel a bit heated. 

“Alright. Open wide.” John uses two fingers to tip his reluctant patient’s chin up so he can use the room’s light to get a look at his tongue and throat. Sherlock hesitates a moment, then opens his mouth wide. John clears his throat then cranes to look inside.

“Yep. Simple case of Laryngitis,” John pronounces, placing his hands on his hips. His voice is the calm and confident tone of an experienced physician. “Drink plenty of fluids. You’ll also need to rest your voice. That means no talking, Sherlock.” Sherlock starts to protest, but John holds up a hand. “It’s for your own good. Strenuous use of your voice with acute laryngitis can damage your vocal cords… Should last less than a couple of weeks, though.” Sherlock's face sinks into a pout. John gives him a gentle pat on the shoulder. 

“I'll make some tea.” Sherlock huffs and stalks away. He throws himself on the couch, curling on his side in an overly dramatic sulk. 

John hears the ping of his phone a moment later as he takes the kettle off the stove. He fishes it out of his pocket and opens it.

John laughs and begins heaping sugar into Sherlock’s mug.


	2. Honey

John hears the ping of his cell phone. He looks up at the young woman before him who is sitting on the edge of the exam room bed reading an information pamphlet about venereal diseases. She is glaring at the page angrily as if it was the one that made the poor choices. He decides she needs a moment so he swipes open his phone on the desk and looks down at the message. He tilts his head and smiles. He decides to try for a joke.

John blinks at that. An uncomfortable tightness at the memory of the night at the pool rising in his chest. The phone pings again.

John looks up and around at the room, for a moment wondering if the mad genius somehow installed surveillance in the clinic. He catches the glare of the young woman who gives an irritated huff.

“Question?” He asks as gently as possible.

“Reading,” She growls and returns her eyes to the pamphlet, but he can see the tears starting to well in her eyes.

“How ‘bout I send in one of the nurses, yeah?” John says shoving his phone into his pocket as he rises to his feet. The young lady slumps and bobs her head up and down dejectedly. John lets himself out of the room and closes the door just as he hears the sniffling of a good cry begin. He sighs and pulls out his phone to type as he moves towards the nurse’s station.

“Sarah, can you send a nurse into my office to talk with Ms. Buxton?” John asks, phone still clutched in hand. She glances at his phone and a small frown pulls at her lips. 

“Sure, John... Another emergency?”

“No. No. Nothing like that.” He waves his hands at her, palms out. The guilt rises up in him. She is far too nice to him. He really has been a poor employee and that is not to mention how things ended with their relationship. “I just think she would feel a bit better talking to a female,” he says leaning in and speaking quietly.

“Oh, Ok. I understand,” she says with a gentle smile and giving him a knowing wink. His mind wanders for a moment, remembering those blonde lashes sliding over her blue eyes on their trip together several weeks earlier - the trip that had been glorious until the moment it all went up in flames. He shakes his head to escape his mind running through how it had all gone wrong. He looks down at his phone as it pings again and he turns away from the desk to head towards the break room.

“Shit,” John curses under his breath and looks up to find a nurse glaring at him. “Sorry,” he says flushing a little and smiling weakly. He continues past her into the breakroom. It is empty and he sighs as he flops down in a chair.

John smiles, wishing to be back home sitting on his chair by the fire and reading that novel he has yet to finish while Sherlock types away at the computer or conducts an experiment at the kitchen table.

John thinks a moment, trying to picture what Sherlock might be doing. He remembers the sour expression he wore this morning as John prepared for work. He had the distinct impression the mad genius was pouting because he was not staying home to care for him. Not that there is much that John can do. These sort of things just have to run their course, and other than being unable to speak there aren’t any other symptoms. The last thing he needs is to start waiting on the man hand and foot and then the detective will surely lose the desire to do any self-care.

There is a long pause and John begins to wonder if he is going to respond. He has to open his phone again by the time another message comes in and he can almost hear the petulant and irritated tone of it.

John snorts. The lack of retort amounts to confirmation that he is indeed curled into a large, Sherlock-shaped ball of sulk on the couch. He almost feels bad for his friend.

John’s fingers hover over the phone as he feels his face heat further. He withholds any witty remarks that border on innuendos.


	3. Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Hotaru_Tomoe for her suggestions that got me moving again on this fic.

Leave it to Sherlock to make a demand that turns into a bloody quest that has John treking halfway across London. 

John finds that the local Tesco has a sparse selection of honey; none of it raw. He considers for about half a minute going home empty handed and putting up with Sherlock's sulking or hysteronics before deciding that Sherlock is sick and so it's worth a bit of extra effort to appease him. A quick search online and, with an exasperated sigh, he sets off for a small honey specialty shop in the heart of Clapham Junction. 

John stops just inside the door of the cozy shop, staring at a wood and glass case embedded in the wall with thousands of live bees buzzing over the surface of their comb. It is entancing, really. 

“Amazing, aren't they?” John looks up to find a man behind the counter. He is middle-aged with a short-cropped graying beard and mustache and dark hair. He has the light in his eyes of a man that truly loves what he does and beams a welcoming smile at John. 

“Yes, definitely.” John turns his eyes back to the case to watch the bees. Several are doing jittery, hopping movements across the surface of the comb and he worries he's agitated them. “Why are some of them… uh… vibrating like that?” 

“Dancing. That's how they communicate. Bees are accomplished dancers and mapmakers. They are telling each other where the best flowers can be found.”

“Hmm.” John purses his lips and watches them a moment longer, thinking about Sherlock, the only other creature he would think to categorize as an accomplished dancer and mapmaker (with all of London in his head). 

“We house over 20,000 bees here at the shop,” the shopkeeper puts in with a note of pride.

“That seems… _risky._ ” John leans closer to the case, judiciously inspecting it for cracks or broken seals that might let the swarm free. Perhaps it is his experience as a doctor or, more likely, it's living with Sherlock but he often finds himself hyper-aware of accidents waiting to happen. Death by bee swarm seems a particularly unpleasant way to go out.

“Perfectly safe, I assure you.” The shopkeeper lifts his hands in a good-natured, appeasing gesture. “I'm a fourth generation beekeeper and I’ve learned you've more to worry about from humans than bees.” He smiles and it's that goofy sort of awkward smile of someone who has built a life around a passion that makes him a bit odd to the rest of the world.

“Right.” John agrees, tipping his head to the side and thinking of how his own habit of spending all his spare time catching murderers alongside Sherlock has certainly had an influence on his social life. 

John starts to move slowly around the shop, gazing around at the built-in shelves packed with a dizzying amount of jars in a variety of colours of liquid from amber to yellow. Some have bits of wax and the labels note a variety of flavours alongside the main ingredient of honey.

“Wow. This is - there's really a lot of variety here.” John blows out a breath, overwhelmed at the baffling array of choices. 

“Yep. We’ve over 700 products. Can I help you find something in particular?”

“Yeah, don't know. He wasn't _this_ specific.” John picks up a jar and begins reading the label. English Jewelweed Balsam Honey. “Just said he wants raw honey.”

“Ah, so it's a gift?” The shopkeeper has come around to stand next to John. His hands are on his hips, surveying the assortment of honeys with an eagle eye. 

“Um… Not exactly.” John hesitates, picking up and examining a second jar to stall as he considers what to say. English Dark Summer Honey. It looks thicker and darker than the first. “My flatmate. He's sick...” 

“Oh, yes, you're in the right place,” The Shopkeeper's eyes light up as he clasps his hands together. “Honey has many health benefits. It has numerous antibacterial, antiviral, and antimicrobial properties.”

“Really,” John raises his eyebrows in surprise at the shopkeeper. He can't help but wonder if this is why Sherlock specifically requested raw honey. “There's been scientific research?”

“Oh, yeah.” The shopkeeper is lit up like Sherlock when he's getting to show off his skill at deduction. “Some research scientists have called bee pollen a perfect food and propolis, the sticky stuff from the bee - the bee glue - there's been quite a lot of lab research that notes its ant-viral, anti-bacterial, anti-inflammatory, and antioxidant, properties… Here.” The man pulls a little home-made pamphlet from a rack of similar sheets and offers it to John. John sets down the bottles of honey to take it. It has _'The Facts About Propolis’_ printed in bold on the front along with the shops logo. John obligingly opens it and glances at the cited research. 

“Hmm.” John nods and tries to hand the sheet back.

“Keep it.” The shopkeeper waves it off. John sticks it in his pocket, smiling as he thinks that he'll give it to Sherlock to pour over and do his own research later. That should keep him busy and out of trouble for a time.

“So all of these have those health benefits?” John asks, gesturing at the assortment.

“Yeah. You can get all 22 amino acids in any one of these. But you're looking for raw, right? Over here.” The shopkeeper motions for John to follow him over to a smaller selection with 'raw’ on the labels. 

“What's he going to use it for?”

John huffs a laugh and rubs at the back of his neck. “Yeah, don't know.” Could be anything, really. _Anything._ To be honest, it's more likely for an experiment than food or drink, but admitting that to someone who doesn't know the unique context of Sherlock would just be bizarre. 

“Well, then, cover your bases, mate?” The shopkeeper hands John a jar with a thinner, golden liquid inside and ‘Hungarian Silkwood Honey’ printed in fancy scrollwork on the label.  
“This one is rare. Has a full, rich, honeycomb flavor. Perfect for cooking or spooning over yogurt, hot cereal, puddings, or in teas and coffees.”

He picks up a second jar and places it in John’s other hand. The jar is a different shape than all the others and it has a little square of burlap tied over the lid with straw. The label is simpler, bold red with 'Greek Hive Natural Raw Honey’ printed on it. The liquid inside is a dark amber and noticeably thicker than the first. 

“Now, this - well, it is just serendipity we even have this. A really nice Greek guy and his partner came in the shop a few years back and we hit it off. They have beekeeping friends in Greece and bring a few jars to us each time they travel back home. It has this amazing rich, intense taste and Greek pine honey has the strongest antibacterial properties among all the tested honeys. It's good as a spread. Perfect on hot muffins, wholemeal toast, hot cereal, puddings or fruit and ice cream.” 

John gazes down at the two jars a moment, turning them in his hand and studying the very different contents. They are kind of beautiful and the Shopkeeper's enthusiasm is contagious.

“All right. I'll take them both.” John smiles and hands them back to the Shopkeeper. He's feeling better about his prospects of satisfying Sherlock's demand with this man’s expert advice. 

“Great!” The Shopkeeper slips behind the desk and begins wrapping the jars in some paper. “Anything else?”

“Um. I don't know…” John glances around, suddenly feeling as anxiously as he might if he were buying a gift for a love interest. He doesn't really buy things like this for Sherlock; precious things in small boutiques that require thought and care. It's an oddly pleasurable indulgence. He knows he might earn Sherlock's look of confusion mixed with concern for going so overboard but he finds he's willing to risk a bit of awkwardness. He has never really had a valid excuse to splurge on Sherlock before. 

He picks up a little rectangular container with a cut of honeycomb inside. It is tied up with strands of colored straw. He considers that Sherlock can surely find some bizarre experiments to do with the contents or find some pleasure in studying the composition. He sets it on the counter.

“This.”

“Oh, English Wildflower Honeycomb, that's a good choice!” the Shopkeeper smiles as he picks it up. “This comes from our own hives and is one of the best ways to enjoy honey. All the wax is edible, and is made by the honeybee from nectar. It's such a luscious, chewy treat to share. Intoxicating, really.” The shopkeeper grins and winks at John with a suggestiveness that is all too familiar. 

John feels his face flush with heat. He turns away with images of feeding Sherlock sweet, sticky bits of honeycomb, like some sort of aphrodisiac, flashing through his head. He’s definitely overplayed his hand here and the shopkeeper has obviously got the wrong idea about he and Sherlock. 

John clears his throat and crouches to look at another jar in a cabinet by the counter. The jar has a thick, lighter coloured substance and a fancy black label with ‘Royal Jelly’ in gold letters and a crown of gold above it. It looks expensive, like one of Sherlock's fine suits or expensive hair care products.

“What about this?” John places on the counter now prepared to be thoroughly and enthusiastically educated. This shopkeeper makes John fondly recall Sherlock, always spouting facts as if he is just waiting for someone to give him a reason to access his endless databanks of obscure knowledge. 

“Oh, that's very special. Royal Jelly is what the queen bee feeds on throughout her life. It is what makes her queen, really. It's kind of a super food for her alone. Royal Jelly has been used in traditional medicine since ancient times. This has the jelly mixed in with raw honey so he could spread it on his toast or put it in his tea.”

John nods, pushing it across the counter. “All right. I'll take that too.” 

The shopkeeper rings John up and John is pleasantly surprised that he's not done too much damage to his funds with his little splurge. He’ll just have to pick up an extra shift at the clinic to make it back but he has no regrets. Worst case scenario, Sherlock won't like any of it and John will share it with Mrs. Hudson.

“The name's James, by the way.” The Shopkeeper reaches across the counter to offer his hand.

“John," John says giving it a firm shake. “Thanks for all your help… Probably saved me loads of grief. I really haven't a clue with this sort of thing.” John gestures around at the shop.

“My pleasure. Come back soon.” The shopkeeper slides John his bag. 

“Yeah, don't know. This seems like a lot of honey.” John holds up the bag, heavy with his loot. “Imagine it will take us a while to eat it all,” John chuckles lightly and turns to go.

“Honey is the one food substance that, if you keep it in the right conditions, it never goes off. Pots of honey have been found in Egyptian tombs that are still as edible now as they were over four thousand years ago.”

“Good to know.” John grins. “Sometimes our flat’s a bit like an Egyptian tomb, so that's perfect.” 

James chuckles, looking only slightly confused by that joke.

“Well, then you can always stop in and tell me how he likes them. Or maybe when your boyfriend is healthy, he'll want to come have a look at the hives for himself,” James suggests as John begins to push open the door.

“He's not actually-” John stops himself. In order to protect Sherlock's reputation and privacy, he usually objects to such direct suggestions of he and Sherlock being in an intimate relationship. He generally won't allow people to even loosely imply they are together in that way if there is a possibility it will offend a nearby Sherlock or if there is any chance the papers will get wind of it and use it to harm Sherlock's reputation as a consulting detective. However, right now Sherlock isn't around and he considers that James, who seems to spend more time talking to bees than other humans, doesn't know about Sherlock and doesn't seem to know John from any other bloke in London.

“Yeah, I think he might like that,” John says with a soft smile. In these instances, when there is little risk of harming anything by it, not denying the idea that Sherlock could be his warms John's chest and makes him feel a bit lighter inside. “We’ll see.”

John ventures home to 221B with his loot with a bit more spring in his step and a grin on his face. 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Kudos and/or comments appreciated.**  
>  ______________________
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _"See how nature - trees, flowers, grass - grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence... We need silence to be able to touch souls." - _Mother Theresa__  
>  _______


End file.
